To Catch A Criminal
by BiJane
Summary: A painting is stolen, almost impossibly: yet Sherlock insists the case is trivial and refuses to waste his time solving it. Can John and Lestrade solve it themselves?
1. 1: The Case

**This probably isn't my best story, but I wanted to write something for the masterpiece that is Sherlock.  
It will probably be just five chapters or so, nothing too long. Still, I hope you enjoy! **

Darkness. From the outside, she could tell it was a warehouse: from the inside, it seemed like a void.

Well, she reflected, of course there was no light: he wouldn't be trying to make her feel comfortable, would he?

She shivered; before taking another, hesitant step into the warehouse. Her footsteps were loud; echoing. No doubt as planned. Was he even here? Perhaps this was just an attempt at intimidation.

She held onto the knowledge that he wouldn't, couldn't do anything: she was here to make him an offer. He'd at least hear her out. Wouldn't he?

"You say you can steal the Turner?" the voice came out of the darkness.

"Yes," she said, after a moment's hesitation. She might have sounded calm on the surface, but beneath, she was anything but. There was something about this man's voice: something almost inhuman.

"So why are you coming to me?"

Good question. By now, she wished she could change her mind. Everything about this seemed designed to intimidate: perhaps it stopped people arriving with timewasting on their mind. Still, she was hardly a hardened criminal: but…

"I need the money," it took her two attempts to get the sentence out. "And it's probably worth a lot, to some people. I just- I don't know where to find those people."

"But I _can_," the voice sounded almost amused, pitch drifting ever higher.

She shivered, pulling her thin, torn coat further around herself. She wondered if she should say something: but the voice hadn't made it clear. So she waited; unable to tell how much time passed. It couldn't have been long. She hoped.

"If you take it, the theft will be in the papers by morning," he was speaking calmly again, now: calculating. "Buyers will contact me, to see if I'm behind it. There'll be a small auction: so, the day after the story appears in the papers, come here at eleven pm. Put Turner's painting in a safe location, and tell no one where it is; until I give you the money, then tell me. That will end our arrangement. Satisfactory?"

A moment's pause; she took in the few information. She had never done anything like this, and it scared her. The only thing that scared her more, was how bored the voice sounded. How routine must this be to him?

"Yes, Mr Moriarty," she spoke, still hesitant. Then, knowing what question she was meant to ask: "How much will it sell for?"

"Now, now; I can't tell you that," it was as if he were speaking to a child. "Yet. But remember, if you lie to me about where the painting is, it's very easy for me to find you again."

…

Life was calm at Baker Street; John typed away at his blog, idly finishing a post.

He winced at a sudden screech of frustration. Well, life was mostly calm.

There were few new cases. Most that had arrived, Sherlock had either ignored, insulted the client until they left, or he'd just solved them in scarcely an instant. John couldn't decide whether to feel impressed or exasperated.

Sherlock paced up and down the room, muttering to himself; indecipherable. At the sound of the door downstairs opening, he jumped up and, with unjustifiable excitement, ran out the door.

Quickly glancing, to make sure he'd left the room, John stood up and moved to pick up Sherlock's gun; he quickly fiddled with it, before removing the ammunition and pocketing it. Then, taking care to put it down exactly where it had been, he walked back to the computer.

It was only seconds later that Sherlock returned upstairs. He'd no doubt expected a case, or something. It wasn't unheard of for a client to come in with Mrs Hudson; even if unlikely. It said a lot about Sherlock's bored state of mind that he'd ignored deduced probability to look downstairs at the arrival of their landlady.

As soon as the detective re-entered the room, he picked up his revolver and made to shoot a hole in the spray-painted smiley face. A click; Sherlock groaned, dropping the weapon before turning towards John.

"Is there anything?" Holmes demanded, desperate. John rolled his eyes; quickly glancing back at his computer and opening Sherlock's website.

"Not unless you want to change your mind about that guy with the tattoos."

"The illustrated client John, really?" A sigh; "He accessed the Internet in an unexpected place. That's not even a crime, let alone an interesting one."

The detective returned to pacing, throwing the useless gun against the wall and ignoring it as it clattered loudly to the floor.

"What happened to that Ryder case?" Watson spoke up suddenly, frowning. Sherlock glanced sideways; for a moment he seemed either distracted or interested. Still, he remained silent; still pacing from wall to wall.

John exhaled, unable to bear Sherlock when he was like this. He was surprised there hadn't been any requests for cigarettes; or maybe Sherlock had already tried and failed to find them.

Moments later, with barely any transition, Holmes turned and strode out the door; John stared after him for a second or two, half expecting the detective to return, still bored and pacing. Instead, John blinked as he again heard the front door swing open and closed.

A bored Sherlock Holmes walking through the streets of London? John rolled his eyes, standing; he didn't follow, yet. There wasn't any need to. Still, he couldn't help but worry.

Then, with no other course of action, he again returned to the computer; rereading the blog post and debating whether or not to publish.

…

"Job interview, your father's coat. Too obvious," Sherlock mumbled to himself, pacing feverishly down the London streets. He turned his head from side to side, anxiously searching out some puzzle, no matter how trivial.

A man passing slowed, frowning sideways; Sherlock met his eyes.

"Oh, come on, can't you see?" he implored the stranger: "Look at your coat: frayed, obviously old. Then look at the rest of your clothes; smart, a suit. Evidently dressed for an interview, and everything else's new, so you can afford new things. Old coat? Implies sentiment; and judging by the age and size-you can't be more than twenty-a hand-me-down. Most likely, father's."

The stranger, apparently heading for a job interview, frowned; before quickly turning and walking off, pace sped up slightly.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, continuing to walk the opposite way, murmuring under his breath.

"Judging from the tan, back from holiday: and heading for a haircut, judging by how much of the tan's covered. Boring. And you: new watch; no scratches, very loose. Stolen. Next; indentation on finger, ring removed. Divorced? No, too happy; and casual clothes, suggests affair. And the next; stained shirtsleeves but clean jacket, just had lunch. Took jacket off, and crease lines suggest hung up; friend's house. If at home, would have changed shirt. Oh, why is nothing challenging?"

Mumbling incessantly, he continued walking down the street. He had no destination in mind, beyond some distraction.

"Worn shirt, clean jumper, new watch. Frayed trousers: financial difficulties, old clothes, except for those that would be given as a present. Ah! But wears glasses; could be out of date, given the lack of money, but still worn. Worn while walking: short-sighted, but there's a bulge in their pocket for the case, so glasses not worn at work; must watch what's near. Wears a new watch out, despite financial trouble: can't be working in IT, then. Must read: judging from the direction they're walking, they work for a publisher, but not paid much." Sherlock inhaled; "Wonder if they've killed anyone? Nah, wrong shoes."

He turned around suddenly, heading the opposite way to the person who worked for a publisher's. Boring.

…

A ring; Sherlock halted swiftly, hand entering his pocket to anxiously search for his phone. An instant before it could ring a third time, he'd answered it.

"Hello, Sherlock? It's Lestrade," the Inspector's voice came through the phone; Holmes cut him off.

"Please tell me it's a case," the detective was almost breathless.

"I wouldn't call you for the fun of it," Lestrade said. "There's been a theft; that new JMW Turner painting at the gallery's been taken. It was due to be presented to the Queen: there's no way it could have been taken-"

"Evidently it was," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "On my way." He muttered a 'yes!' of triumph as he hung up.

Pocketing the phone again, he turned around; heading back for Baker Street. He took his time; walking rather than hailing a taxi. Time shouldn't change the crime scene. Where was the rush?

It was good to be at work again.

"John!" He called into the front door; not stepping inside. He stuck one arm out, thumb up; trying to find a taxi. "There's been a theft. Sounds like a good one. The new Turner painting."

Before Sherlock finished his sentence, John was hurrying down the stairs, pulling a jacket on. The detective smiled, stepping away from the door to see a taxi slow.

The journey to the gallery would take a fair few minutes. John sat beside Sherlock, mentally going over what little he knew of the case from Sherlock's introduction.

A new Turner painting had been stored in a London gallery, a present from somewhere abroad, and it was apparently to be gifted to the Queen. That probably meant it was guarded by more than the typical gallery security; government, perhaps. Made it harder for a thief to get in, much less get out carrying a piece of art about half their size.

"Lestrade," Sherlock was again on his phone, calling the police at the gallery while they were driven there. "I take it you have actually listened to me? Don't touch anything, especially if Anderson's there. Yes, ok, we're on our way."

John sighed at the detective's classic impatience. Sometimes he thought that, if the man were only slightly less clever, the police would refuse to have anything to do with him. Too much work.

Still, at least he made himself useful to them.

John found himself almost hoping the crime was a bad one. Though it felt wrong to support a criminal, he knew that very few would outdo Sherlock: and the more impressive the crime, the longer Sherlock would be sated.

Though it felt selfish, John couldn't help but think it.

As they arrived at the gallery, Sherlock pushed the driver's fee through, before leaping out and hurrying towards the crime scene. With much less vigour, John followed, catching up to the detective as he pressed a banknote into a homeless woman's hand.

Without turning, and still followed by John, Sherlock ducked below the police barrier and soon found his way to a relatively spacious room: the far wall was blank, with just a few marks on to show a painting had hung there.

"At last, Sherlock," Lestrade approached the detective; Holmes held out a hand, gesturing for quiet as he stopped barely a metre from the plain wall.

Sherlock tilted his head, frowned; leant closer before pulling back. Jerky. Two steps back; then he seemed almost to collapse, falling to the floor, and examining the thin carpet. Grey beads of fabric, barely ascending from the ground; yet he stared at them as if they were diamond.

"Step-ladder, or chair," Sherlock said, as he stood up; his eyes glanced around the room. "Well hurry up! Bring me one."

Blinking, Lestrade echoed the order. Holmes smiled, pacing with a little less frustration than before.

"Are there any officers outside?" Sherlock spoke again, tone demanding; as if he had a right to the answer.

"Yes, they-"

"Doesn't matter," Holmes cut-off Lestrade, "Bring them in. All of them into this room; the painting can't have gone. Really, think about it: too big to conceal, and no one could walk around with it without raising suspicion. During the day, they couldn't have reached a car without being spotted: and a car's the only way to escape. Therefore, the painting must still be here. Where's that step-ladder?"

A police officer came into the room, dragging a chair. Holmes hopped on the spot, running over and snatching it from them. Then wordless, he moved to stand on it; arms reaching up for the ceiling.

The ceiling was made up of a series of boards; all balanced over a grid of metal. Above it there was no doubt the air conditioning system, but with a little effort, the boards resting on the metal frame could be pushed… up. Perfect. Making sure it was out the way, Sherlock gripped the metal outline of the board.

"Everyone in here? Good," he spoke as he pulled himself up, feet leaping from the back of the chair. "Check the walls, the carpet. Everything; I'm looking up here. The painting has to still be here."

And with that, Holmes vanished into the ceiling. Some of the police officers watched, almost bemused, as his feet were pulled in.

Trusting the detective's judgement, however, they got to work. Above them, there was a banging as Sherlock pulled himself over the boards. They could almost hear his progress; towards one wall. A scarping sound, and a cry, muffled by the roof.

One of the boards by that wall was lifted up by Sherlock, and the detective stuck his head through, looking around at the room, upside down.

"There's a hole in the wall, just here: the bricks have been cut away. Put back to avoid notice, but there are always signs, look," Holmes dropped a piece of stone down the back; composed of four bricks, all in a row. "That take care of things from the outside, and people don't generally look here from the inside. If the painting's snuck up here, they can slide it out the wall. That solves how they got it out the building." The detective dropped down, neatly landing on the floor. "Not the whole case, but I'm sure you can figure it out from there."

Straightening his coat collar, Sherlock turned and swiftly paced out of the room. Lestrade watched him, blinking; John turned and shrugged apologetically, before quickly following.

"Sherlock!" he hurried after the detective, catching him only as they reached the road. "Sherlock," he caught his breath; "What was that?"

"A boring case," the detective shrugged, "I'm not wasting my time on a theft as trivial as that. There _has_ to be a nice murder somewhere." He ignored the first taxi that passed, before sticking out a thumb, looking up and down the road.

"Really Sherlock?" John spoke, "Someone's walked off with a great big painting in broad daylight, and you're not interested? I thought you wanted a case."

"Something this transparent isn't a case," the detective sighed; "It's pathetic, John. Even your limited intellect could probably solve it, given time. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to find a serial killer."

With that, the detective stepped into the next taxi; and almost immediately drove off, leaving John staring.


	2. 2: Deductions

**It's interesting to write some of this. I've tried to do mysteries before, and I've never quite been able to get the hang of them. Still, I hope this story succeeds, somewhat. **

Back in the gallery, John Watson looked around. Sherlock evidently wasn't going to be much help, so he'd decided to look around alone. Maybe he'd learnt something over the cases he'd worked with Holmes.

Well, probably not. Still, there wasn't much else to do, and the police force were fine; so long as he implied he'd report back to Sherlock later.

Hopefully he could convince the detective to say what was going on when they got back to Baker Street.

What methods had he learned? Well, sometimes echoing the path of the perpetrator helped: John frowned, eyes wandering over the room. The plain wall; from there, the painting must have been hoisted up, and slipped above the ceiling boards. Once it was up there, a hole had been cut in the wall: so the criminal must have had quite a lot of time, to manage that neatly enough that the bricks could be slotted back into place.

That didn't answer the two most pressing questions: how could they sneak off with the painting? And how could they get in past the guards?

"So, tell me what you know," John spoke to DI Lestrade, acting official.

"Not much," the Inspector glanced around the room. "We know there must have been an accomplice: someone for them to slip the painting to, now Sherlock's found that gap. And we know there was at least one guard either in the room, or at the door to it, at all times: yet somehow, in the time one person spent facing the door, the burglar snuck in unheard and climbed off with the Turner. They don't show up on CCTV either."

"And the guard who saw the painting had gone?"

"Lauren Massey, 27," Lestrade paused for a moment, remembering. "You can talk to her if you want, Donovan'll give you the details."

John paused, thinking. It wasn't much extra information, but he may as well; Sherlock had said he could solve it, and if the detective really wasn't interested, then he could try.

He was working on a theory, already; several possible theories. In answer to the question of how they'd escape with the painting, that could be managed by dressing up and having the accomplice act as if they were carrying the Turner in some official capacity. No doubt the police had thought of that; the question was, how did they safely get it out?

The CCTV in the room had been cut about the same time Lauren Massey stood guard outside, John learnt from Lestrade. They saw nothing of what happened in the room; only what happened outside. Lauren standing still, and looking out.  
It didn't seem possible for someone to enter the painting's room, unless perhaps they were somehow concealed by the guard, Lauren: but even that was unlikely to the point of impossibility.

So there was no way for a thief to get into the room. Yet they had.

Unless…

"Lauren Massey," John began, suddenly thoughtful: Does she have a son? Or a daughter? Any kind of young child."

"A daughter," Lestrade replied, frowning. "About five years old. Why?"

"I'm thinking like Sherlock: if there's no way into the room, via the doors, without the cameras noticing, then there must have been another way in," John gestured towards the ceiling; and towards the wall. "The hole the painting was forced out through. What if they used it as an entrance as well? Not big enough for an adult, obviously; but a child…"

"That would be noisy," Lestrade murmured, almost to himself. "So Massey would have to know: and if it were her daughter, she'd probably have planned it. It's a start."

John made a mental note to find Donovan. He had to speak to Lauren Massey, to see if he could find any clue.

Had Sherlock figured all this out at a glance? Was this really how he thought and felt, all the time?

Mentally, he ran over the theorized routine: Lauren's child, with an accomplice, was lifted up outside the building, and had to climb through a tiny hole already made. Once she squeezed inside, the accomplice waited, acting as if they were on official business: Massey's daughter dropped into the room, noise ignored by Lauren, who expected it. She could steal the painting, somehow ascend to the ceiling again (it would be relatively easy to sneak in some way of climbing back up), push the painting out to the accomplice, before slipping out herself. All the while, Lauren Massey stood on guard, knowing what was happening.

No motive, yet, and some of the details were sketchy. Still, it fit the facts.

New questions: why had she done it? Who was the third person, the accomplice outside?

Making sure to remember those, John nodded his thanks to Lestrade, before walking off in search of Sally Donovan.

The motive, he reflected, was most likely obvious enough: crude money. It was unlikely to be any more exotic than that, and there were presumably shady art dealers out there who'd buy this kind of painting.

Soon, John found Donovan just outside the room. He neared her, a little hesitant; before asking about Lauren Massey.

"Still working for Sherlock?" She spoke; writing quickly in her notebook, before tearing out a page. "That's her address. Speak to her tomorrow, it's late now."

"Right," John scanned the scrap of paper, before pocketing it. "Thank you."  
"No problem," Sally shrugged; "Anything else the all-knowing Sherlock needs?" She was evidently mocking. John ignored her jibes, frowning.

"One thing, actually," he paused; "Have you got a tape measure?"

…

Baker Street: John made a list of everything he knew about the case so far, finishing it with what he wanted to achieve tomorrow. Sherlock played violin in the background, occasionally shooting almost contemptuous glances across.

A possible method for the crime had been put down; and he'd measured the size of the gap in the wall. It was definitely large enough for the painting to get through, but the inclusion of a child made him wonder.

It was definitely the only way in and out of that room, given the lack of anyone noticeable on the CCTV to and from it. And, admittedly, the bricks were slightly larger than normal; and with the size of the cement gaps factored in, it seemed more likely.

Still, he had to be sure; so he'd noted down the width and height. If Lauren Massey's daughter was too close or above those numbers, then he'd have a definite mark against that hypothesis.

But then what?

Just in case, he'd put down another task for tomorrow: check the CCTV. It was unlikely he'd stumble onto something the police had missed, but he could hope.

If there was nothing noticeable on the CCTV footage, and if Lauren's daughter could not have fit through the gap, then it seemed impossible for anyone to even get to the right room, let alone steal the painting.

The violin music in the background stopped; and Sherlock strode into the room, before falling rather gracefully onto the sofa.

"Look, Sherlock," John turned, leaving his schedule for tomorrow, "Are you going to help with this case, or not?"

"Why would I?" the detective seemed almost to be sulking. "It's trivial."

"For you, maybe," John sighed, irritated now. "Not everyone can figure things out like you can. 'Oh, look at me, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I know that you're a banker because of your elbows': no one else does that."

"Fingers."

"What?"

"It's the front of their fingers that gives away a banker, not elbows. "

John closed his eyes, breathing heavily for a moment, before sighing.

"Not the point, Sherlock," he began again, wondering whether the detective was just trying to be annoying. "You can't expect everyone to solve a crime at a look like you can. Will you at least tell the police your conclusions, let them sort it out?"

"Why bother?" Holmes lay back, as if sleeping sitting up. "It looks like you've made a start. Tell me how it goes tomorrow."

…

The next day, John left Baker Street without Sherlock. It was almost ten o'clock; and he'd brought with him a notebook, to record whatever Lauren Massey would tell him. And, of course, a measuring tape.

He'd taken Sherlock's refusal to help as almost a challenge. He'd spent a few minutes that morning planning what questions he could ask, and ignored the detective's almost mocking queries as to the progress of the case; before phoning for a taxi as opposed to walking out and finding one on the street.

It didn't take long for him to arrive at Massey's house. The door opened an instant before he could knock.

"You with the Plods too?" The woman who answered the door, presumably Lauren, spoke. Not unkindly; but perhaps impatient. "Come in, then. Come on! John Watson, right?"

John blinked, stepping inside: he nodded however, looking around the house. He wondered what Sherlock would read from it.

"Thought so; read your blog, you know," presumably-Massey lead the way down a fairly thin hall, before moving sideways into an ever-so-slightly more spacious room. "Good stuff. The Plods have called in Holmes then?"

"Kind of, yes," John paused; "Lauren Massey?"

"Yeah, that's me," she seemed momentarily guilty. "I'd tell you I didn't do it, but I guess anyone'd be saying that. Well, hey, so, anything you want to know?"

John pulled out his notebook, finding where he'd jotted down the questions. For a moment, he scanned through the list, wondering which to start with.

Lauren was friendlier than he'd expected: though all he knew was that she was a guard, from that he'd expected someone tougher, or more, well, guarded. It felt strange to instead see a fairly cramped house, and a woman with a surprisingly strong accent.

"Just a few things," he looked up from the notebook; "Do you have any financial problems, or anything, at the moment?"

"Nope, none," Lauren shrugged; "Well, not nothing too bad. Course things ain't perfect; don't think things ever are."

John noted down her answer, paraphrased, glancing around the room as he did so.

The walls were bare, and the floor was, mostly; it was littered with toys and shoes. He was sat on a low sofa with a cushion so thin it felt almost absent; and Massey was sat opposite, on something similar. Between them was a table that looked as if Lauren had constructed it herself.

She didn't look rich.

"Didn't used to be making too much," Lauren spoke again, noticing John's gaze drifting around the room; "Got moved up a bit, but never moved out. Well, memories: plus Becky's been sick. Think she's better now: but you know, bills and such. Things getting better though."

Becky had to be her daughter; John noted that down. Though Lauren said it hadn't been too bad, that could be a lie. It was a possible motive, at least.

"Is Becky your daughter?" John asked; Lauren nodded. Good; Watson was glad he hadn't made a mistake there. "Can I ask about her?"

"Sure," Lauren Massey didn't seem overly surprised by this turn in questioning; or maybe that was just her guard-side. Whatever the case, John made a small note of that.

"Does she do any sport?" John remembered the sight of the gap in the wall from outside; he'd noticed it as he'd left, yesterday. "Climbing, or anything gymnastics-related, maybe?"

"Nah."

"And she's five?"

"Yeah," Lauren chuckled to herself; "Five and three quarters, she says."

"Would you say she's small for her age?"

"Not really. More big if anything," Lauren shrugged; "I don't know the average size. She's tall as anyone else in her year."

A nod; John quickly put down those few facts.

Sport was a bit of a leap; but he guessed that it was more likely someone with a bit of practise at that kind of thing would be better at sneaking through that hole. Similarly, Becky would certainly have to be relatively small to fit through the gap. Still, it seemed the only way to and from the room.

"Do you mind if I see her?" John asked, feeling his pocket for the measuring tape. He needed to know if Becky could have fit through.

"Can I ask why?"

"It's a police theory," John hesitated, not willing to give away the details. That wouldn't be wise, if Lauren was the perpetrator: "Just need to take some measurements."

"Ok," Lauren frowned; "Will you stop if she gets upset?"

"I promise."

Lauren called Becky into the room; and John got onto his knees, taking the tape out. First of all, he measured shoulder-to-shoulder, and noted down that number. It was just about smaller than the width of the gap.

Becky giggled, apparently finding the whole situation amusing. John smiled, reaching a little higher to bring the tape across her head, from front to back.

"Say, is Sherlock going to be coming?" her voice was unreadable: John barely tried to do so.

"No," he replied, getting a measurement. "He's not spending a lot of time on this case; he says it's trivial. That's Sherlock," John couldn't keep a trace of bitterness out of his voice, as he noted down that number.

It was too big. He frowned; then how else could the painting have been stolen? It would take someone tiny to slip through the gap, and an animal wouldn't have been able to commit the theft. In addition, it would need to be someone close to Lauren, and trusted by her.

Wait! John turned sideways, as if looking at something; he'd almost missed something obviously. If Becky Massey turned her head, the width of it would have been needed to go through the gap, not the length he'd just measured.

"One more," he murmured, turning the tape measure to go from ear to ear.

"Shame," Lauren mused in the background. "Sorry about asking. I work for his brother; well, kind of. That got me the job guarding the painting. It's in the police report: sorry, just didn't want you to think I was one of those fans."

"It's fine," John said, still distracted, as he took the second number.

Still too big; just. No matter what he did, Becky Massey's head was a centimetre or so larger than the gap. She wouldn't have fit through.

Maybe there was another child? No, that was too unlikely: it couldn't be discarded, but did make Lauren much less of a suspect.

But who else could it be?

"Ok then," John stood up, "I think that's all. Goodbye."

"Bye," Lauren spoke, her speech echoed by Becky, who waved a tiny hand.

Leaving Lauren Massey's house, John was deep in thought. He needed to speak to Lestrade; tell him that his theory involving Lauren's daughter came to nothing. That was a pain.

And Lauren apparently worked for Mycroft, to a degree. Well, the Turner painting merited government protection, and Sherlock did say his brother practically was the British government. Still, John reflected, he might be able to find something out from that.

His phone soon rang. Stopping by the edge of the street, he reached into his pocket to answer it, glancing at the number.

"Lestrade?" John continued walking down the street.

"John; get back to the gallery," the DI paused, "There's something you'll want to see."

"I hope so," he glanced up and down the road for a taxi; "Just left Lauren Massey's. Her daughter wouldn't have fit through the gap."

"Doesn't matter now. We've had someone examining the CCTV: it's been tampered with. Expertly too; there's a bit of looped footage over Massey's location, but even the time's been altered to make it look real," Lestrade paused as he heard John get into a taxi. "It's only by a bit of luck that we noticed it. There was a small jump over Lauren's position; nothing that would make us suspicious normally, but the officer that noticed it wanted to be sure. A computer check confirmed it: the footage of the previous few seconds matches exactly with another point recorded."

"So someone could have walked in straight past Lauren, and we wouldn't notice?"

John frowned. At least that answered one question: the thief had another way in. But who could edit the camera footage in such an apparently expert way?

"Perhaps," Lestrade seemed now reluctant to accuse Massey. "We don't know what happened in those looped seconds. She might not even have been there."


	3. 3: Discovery

**I won't deny that I'm guessing at some details of security systems and the like. While I do carry out some research for stories, I draw the line at going up to gallery security guards and asking 'Hello! If I wanted to steal a painting, what would catch me?'  
****So, there might be some factual errors (and possible typos, I've tried to spell-check but I could have missed some). Still, I hope you enjoy.**

They knew the thief had influenced the CCTV footage, somehow; they'd blacked out the camera in the painting's room. Still, there was a huge gap between cutting off a camera temporarily, and reworking the footage to hide the path of a thief, and doing so, so successfully that even the time given on each screen had been changed.

"Was there anyone watching the footage from these cameras?" John said, sitting beside DI Lestrade.

They were again in the gallery, watching past footage on the monitors. While they two watched the screens, a small team of computer experts were designing a way to track the looped sections of video.

The team used a map to determine a possible point for the thief to take to enter the view of the camera that watched Lauren. From there, they used a rough guess of the time that the thief would have been there, and searched the rest of that camera's footage for an identical segment.

So far they'd tracked the thief's path through three cameras. It seemed that they had in fact been able to just walk through the front door: though they hadn't determined the route fully. At present, they had four possibilities to look through.

"Sure, Hans Sharma, 32. He's being interviewed right now," Lestrade lay back, watching the screens as they played back the looped sections. "We can tell that he has to be aware of what's going on; he would have seen the CCTV as it came through live. Still, he's not saying anything."

There was no way to tell how many of the guards were involved in it as well; perhaps the thief had walked past in full sight of them, or perhaps something else had happened in the unknown sections. They couldn't tell.

"Is there any chance he could have just missed them?" John said, eventually

"None, if he was doing his job," Lestrade seemed annoyed. "Hans was watching the camera that kept an eye on Lauren. That's the only one we're certain the thief walked through: some of the specialists out there," he gestured towards the at-work team of computer experts, "Reckon there's more than one trail. Then we can't even tell what route the thief took."

John frowned, thoughtful. If multiple cameras featured looped sections of video, it could have meant that there were multiple people heading in: but that seemed excessive. It did make a brilliant distraction; the route alone might not hold too many clues, but it may still hold some. It would take the police much longer to search several possible routes.

And, of course, it was a display of power. Editing a few CCTV cameras wasn't anything special; or rather, it was, but not compared to having seeming free reign.

"There was no one else with Hans?" John spoke, wishing there was a way to come up with more information. They didn't even have any decent suspects any more: Hans Sharma was the only one, but couldn't have committed the theft, and didn't even have to necessarily know who did.

Anonymous commands and blackmail were nothing new; if someone had influenced Hans in that way, it would explain his reluctance to come forward with anything. Then again, so would plain and simple guilt.

"Meant to be," Lestrade replied; "His partner was out to the toilet at the time of the theft."

"Convenient," John said, frowning. That was a definite mark against Hans' innocence: so well timed. "So if we assume Hans Sharma is the only one of the CCTV people in on the crime, was he watching all the screens, or just some?"

"Just some," Lestrade grunted. "With the size of this place, he couldn't watch them all. There were others for other sections."

"How much of the tampered footage comes from his screens? Enough for a route from an entrance to the painting?"

Lestrade's eyes widened as he realized what that would mean. It was a way to tell roughly how many people would have had to be working on the theft: if Hans' screens alone couldn't allow the passage a thief, then there would have to be more people involved; and the case expanded so much more.

And Sherlock called it trivial?

"I'll let you know when the team comes up with an answer," the DI shrugged, remembering the limited progress made.

Whoever had edited the CCTV footage was talented. There was no denying that; the team assigned to finding the flaws did little themselves, beyond feeding times to a computer. They just told a program to compare an estimated time with anything else recorded by that camera.

They'd now found, however, that the predicted path they'd begun to unearth was in fact one of many: going from the painting room outwards, one person's curious scanning of an alternate room found a second path and, moving on from that, countless others.

Not every camera had been altered, of course: but most had. It was beginning to appear as though it was more likely, at a random guess, to find a looped piece of footage compared to an unchanged one.

"Call me when you do," John sighed, standing up. "I want to check something."

Watson left Lestrade with the screens, still thinking.

Firstly, the DI was thankful for a security measure implemented by the gallery: in case of just this suspected event, they made sure each one of the surveillance people, such as Hans, didn't know what areas they'd be watching in advance. That way they could pinpoint who, if anyone, had committed a crime.

Second, he wondered: if their mystery thief had created false routes on the cameras, who was to say they had walked in that way at all?

Back to square one.

…

John stood outside the gallery, looking up to the wall. He could see the hole that the painting must have left through.

At first glance, to him, much of the case seemed to be grounded in delaying tactics. There were so many things to examine, more than there normally seemed to be on such crimes. Then again, maybe he was just used to working with Sherlock.

Whatever the case, it seemed as though the thief was just trying to waste police time. They'd concocted a smokescreen: CCTV editing, traitors among the guards, the hole in the wall…

Even the hole was larger than it needed to be, for the painting. Perhaps they'd intended to encourage John's theory that a child had snuck through, while making it too small for their initial suspicions.

No. Sherlock had called it trivial: even with his mind, it seemed odd that he'd call a mess of loyalties and routes 'trivial'. So there was another answer: John was pleased with himself for that deduction.

He knew one thing for certain. The painting had left this way: Sherlock had said so, and it fitted the facts they had. Someone might be able to sneak past guards unencumbered, but holding a Turner painting? Unlikely.

He'd assume their loyalty, for now. According to Lauren, and the police report, they worked for Mycroft Holmes. They couldn't be leading a double-life with him as their boss.

Which left what?

They couldn't have entered through the gap in the wall. Becky Massey was too big, and she was five: even when he'd suspected Lauren properly, he'd found it odd to involve a child in such a complex theft.

And they couldn't have entered through the door; the CCTV would prevent that.

The solution was obvious; John almost hit himself, beginning to run back into the gallery. _They were already in there_.

The room where the Turner Painting hung wasn't open to the public; neither were much of the 'staff only' corridors surrounding it. But there had to be a point when the painting's room was accessible, even if at a point when the painting wasn't in there.

So long as the thief knew that the Turner piece would end up there, they could find a hiding place in the room, and wait. John guessed they'd been above the ceiling boards.

And, of course, they would have had to work for the gallery, and be quite important. Otherwise they wouldn't know the location of the painting, nor could they leave false trails in the CCTV. It all fit: unfortunately, so did the other theories.

This one, however, had the distinction of matching Sherlock's brief description: trivial. Plus the detective had been inside the ceiling, and so able to no doubt see evidence of someone else residing there.

"Lestrade," John called the DI, thankful the phone didn't ring too long. "How long have the staff known the Turner painting would be there? And when did it arrive?"

"Huh?" there was a pause as he checked: "A week for the staff. It was put there two days ago."

"And have there been any staff absences in the last week? Illness, unexplained, holidays, anything: anything that happened after they found out about the painting, before the painting and guards arrived, and is still going on?"

A pause as Lestrade sorted out John's semi-babble. Then a few more second ticked by as he checked.

"Two," said the DI: "Joe Fleming, janitor, and Deborah McKenzie, exhibition planner."

Well, John reflected, it was unlikely to be the janitor. That left Deborah. If she planned exhibitions, she could have had a lot of influence in planning how the Turner painting would be displayed.

Of course, it could be yet another distraction: yet it seemed few people would be able to encourage an absence to take place, and fewer would be lucky enough to find one that would last the right amount of time, by the right person, with such a valuable painting present.

"Thanks, Lestrade," he spoke, already re-entering the gallery. "I think I've got an idea of what happened. Not complete yet, but I think it's right, so far."

Two questions were at the forefront of his mind. The first was escape: how could Deborah leave the room once she'd taken the painting? And the second was still on his mind; was it really so easy to push the painting out the wall? Even if the hole could be made silently, the theft had taken place in daylight. Surely there would have been people outside?

It was useless speculating, it seemed. He wished Sherlock was actually helping.

…

Back in the painting's room, the ceiling had gone. Or rather, fallen.

Upon hearing John's hypothesis, they'd moved each individual board in the ceiling down to the floor, in the same basic shape, creating a more spacious, better lit view of where presumably-Deborah would have lived for several days.

There would be traces, of course: and there were. A few pieces of litter were found; packaging for long-lasting foodstuffs, and water bottles. Certainly enough for someone to live up there, if not comfortably, then adequately.

Efforts soon went into tracking Deborah McKenzie. She'd called in sick, and then hadn't been seen. A small police group sent to her house failed to uncover any trace of her living there.

It didn't explain how she'd escaped, though John hoped they'd find that out when they found her. John was almost disappointed: it was, as Sherlock said, relatively trivial.

Still, he was glad that the case had been solved. Watson returned to Baker Street, fairly happy.

"Solved it!" John called as he entered the apartment, anxious to show Sherlock that he wasn't completely useless. Still, he had enough time to sit down comfortably before the detective entered the room.

"About time," Sherlock didn't seem hugely impressed. "Who do you think it was, then?"

"Deborah McKenzie," John replied quickly; "Lived in the ceiling area for a few days, when there were no guards, and slipped out when it was clear."

The detective suddenly broke into a grin: if it was anyone else, John would have expected a cheer. Yet Holmes didn't respond to his comment, instead pulling his phone out from his pocket, and quickly dialling.

"Yes, Mycroft? He said in the ceiling. I win," his grin barely faded as he hung up.

"What?" John said, flatly, a little taken aback by Sherlock's expression.

"Bet with Mycroft," a shrug; John rolled his eyes.

"So is this what you do, then?" he couldn't quite decide how to react. "Make bets with your brother about whether or not I can solve a case?"

"Not usually," the detective didn't seem to notice John's reaction. "Only when I know I'll win. Oh! And you're wrong, they didn't hide in the ceiling."

Great. If Sherlock was right, as normal…

"Wait," John spoke up suddenly, frowning: "How do you know that? All the evidence is against her; she's been off work for the exact period of time, and she's vanished, and there's no other way to-"

"I counted fifteen possible false trails from the carpet threads and walls in that room," Sherlock interrupted, abruptly silencing John. "Possibly sixteen if you count the scratches behind the painting. The thief was clever: they wouldn't leave rubbish behind, unless it was a trick."

"Hold on, fifteen?" John quickly said, sincerely hoping the detective was exaggerating. If that was how many a cursory glance revealed to the detective, how many more would the police uncover?

"Of course," he shrugged as if it were obvious: "Tear patterns, pulled threads from the carpet, three distinctive, mutually exclusive kinds of pressure marks; four kinds of dirt scattered around, masking whichever was really brought with them. Scratches on the wall made at inconsistent heights; two-"

"Ok, Sherlock, I get it," John exhaled, a little taken aback.

Maybe his definition of 'trivial' was more suspect than he thought. If he found that many false trails from one room, without knowing about the CCTV, then…

More worrying, though, was the criminal that would think of all that.

"You're sure, though?" John spoke again, reaching for his phone. "It wasn't just a bluff, or something? Make you think she was clever, then take the obvious path?"

"Sure? Of course I'm sure," Sherlock muttered; "However many trails are made, it's usually possible to determine which was the real one. Marks of intensity, or of time; if it took longer than they thought… It only takes eyes."

"I have eyes, you know, Sherlock."

"Then use them."

And he was back to insulting. John withheld a sigh, before calling Lestrade. He needed to let him know Sherlock's deductions; at least the detective had said something, even if it was just 'you're wrong'.

Then, wordless, he waited for the end of the day. He didn't plan to return to the gallery tomorrow, unless the police called him, or he came up with some new brainwave.

So far, he was waiting to hear whether a path to the painting's room could have happened on Hans Sharma's screen alone; and to hear if they found Deborah.

She was still John's top suspect; apparently as Sherlock had guessed. She was meant to be ill, and yet had vanished: though, admittedly there were plenty of ways to blackmail or convince someone to pretend to be ill. Still, what other way was there to get into the room?

It didn't seem possible to find a path past all the guards; it seemed unlikely they all looked away right on time, but it seemed just as bizarre to suppose they were all traitors.

Forget who did it: _how _did they do it?

…

It was late next day, still without any answer, that John received the phone call. Sighing, he sat back down; still in 221B.

"Sergeant Donovan?" John spoke, a little surprised at the call.

"John Watson," she mimicked him for a moment, before pausing. He could hear the sound of a car in the background: "We're coming over. Think we've solved the case; if you're out investigating, get back to Baker Street."

"Right, I'm there," John frowned, standing up to glance out the window. Why did they want to meet here?

"Good. Is Sherlock there?"

"Can't you hear him?" John moved the phone from his ear, pointing it in the general direction of the shut door to Sherlock's room, and the perpetual violin music coming from it.

"Make sure he doesn't leave."

At that, John hesitated. Knowing what Donovan thought of him, and judging by that edge to her voice… His thoughts were cut off at the sound and sight of a police car parking outside.

"Tell me that's just because you want his opinion," John spoke, knowing it was in vain as he peered down at the car.

"We have evidence: he was behind it," Donovan said, before hanging up. John watched she and Lestrade entered 221B Baker Street. Lestrade looked anything but glad.


	4. 4: Mastermind

**I've crossed genres a little here: I cannot write anything in purely a mystery format. While mystery usually plays a part in my stories, I can't write much with it as the driving force. Anyway, I hope you like the latest twist. Enjoy!  
We're nearing the end.**

"So, let me get this straight," John half-shouted, voice backed by a violin, "You're seriously accusing Sherlock Holmes of stealing the painting?"

Lestrade stayed back against the door; Sally Donovan tried to step forwards, only to be blocked by an irate John. She rolled her eyes, evidently impatient.

"I know you're loyal to him," Sally said; "But it doesn't change the facts. He's currently our leading suspect, and we have more than enough evidence to bring him in for questioning."

The sergeant seemed slightly bored; perhaps impatient. Still, John didn't let her pass; keeping her from the door that lead to Sherlock's room.

"What evidence?" John's voice heavily implied it had better be good; Sally slowed in her attempts to get passed, getting ready to recount.

"Lots," she began, almost snapping. "We've found witnesses. One person was out, outside the gallery at the time of the theft: they would have seen any car, or anyone behaving suspiciously, especially if they were pushing a huge painting through a wall. Nothing: so the painting must have come out later-"

"That doesn't prove anything," John cut in, though he could guess what Donovan was going to say next.

"I know," she said; as predicted. "This does: another person was walking outside the gallery during our investigation. They saw a large, rectangular object come through the gallery wall: right about the time your friend Sherlock was 'investigating' in the ceiling. And more than that: they snapped a photo."

Almost triumphantly, Sally lifted up her phone to show a rather grainy, but unmistakable, view of the side of the gallery. As she said, something that was presumably the Turner painting was being pushed out; a woman was visible below, reaching up to grab hold of it.

"Recognize her?" Donovan pointed towards the reaching figure, before taking her phone back. "She's the homeless woman Sherlock gave that money to, before coming in. And remember what he did when he was inside? Got us to call in all officers; leaving no one outside to see what he was doing. Only sheer luck that we got this. Now, going to let us see him?"

John hesitated. The evidence did seem compelling; apparently the right time, and at the very least it fit the facts. The thief was a genius; and so was Sherlock. Still, surely there had to be more justification for that photo, and for the woman?

"No," John shook his head, several seconds later. "I can't believe he'd do this."

"Should I arrest you for obstructing a police inquiry?" Donovan spoke; sharply, before her voice softened somewhat. "Look, I'm sorry, but at the very least we have to ask him some questions."

Watson was still, suddenly uncertain. Though, in a way, he knew Sherlock wasn't a criminal, he also knew there was nothing he could do. If he tried, he'd just be arrested; and they'd walk straight through to Sherlock.

Donovan glanced at him for a moment, before taking a testing step sideways. John didn't react; she slowly strode straight past, heading for Sherlock's room. The violin played on, unabated.

"Listen," Lestrade approached John, apparently abashed. "For what it's worth, I'm on your side."

"Sherlock wouldn't steal a painting," John spoke; resolute. The DI shrugged.

"Maybe," he seemed uncertain: "All I know is that he wouldn't get caught."

John couldn't tell if he was joking; and anything else either of them was going to say, was cut off as Donovan walked back into the room; frustrated.

"He's gone," she very nearly yelled, the violin music still playing on. John glanced at her, surprised; before darting past, to see into the detective's room.

The window was open, his shoes and coat were gone, and in the corner a CD played a violin melody. The light was on; night was beginning to fall, outside. John just stared.

Sherlock must have left after the police arrived; otherwise he wouldn't have used the window. And John had seen him there. Why would the detective run at the arrival of the police? There was only one answer John could think of, and he didn't like it.

Sally Donovan stared out the window, leaning almost completely over the frame; though the street was full of people, Sherlock didn't seem to be among them. Annoyed with herself, she pulled back.

"Where's he gone?" she said, almost to herself, looking around Sherlock's room.

A handful of minutes later, and Donovan and Lestrade were speaking with Mrs Hudson. John listened to them, yet stayed silent, trying to think on what Sherlock must have done.

He heard a few simple facts, and tried to find a way to excuse Sherlock with the. If anything else, the opposite happened: apparently the detective had asked to rent 221C for a couple of days. He'd taken the keys, and spent barely an hour in there since then.

And, of course, he'd taken all the keys to that lock. Donovan immediately concluded he was hiding something in there; like the Turner.

John could see why she would, yet didn't want to admit she was right.

However, it didn't take the two police officers long to get through the locked door; even leaving it in good enough condition to keep Mrs Hudson happy. As John stepped inside, with Lestrade and Donovan, he had to change his mind.

The painting wasn't there: but a stand had been constructed which could obviously be used for such a purpose. Beside it was a small desk; on that lay a file, and a sealed envelope. Pulling plastic gloves on, Donovan moved to open it.

"For DI Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan," she read, ripping it open quickly. A small, triumphant smile; "Yes, I stole the painting, and my accomplice was Liz, of my Homeless Network. I know you've had witnesses; who do you think arranged them? You've behaved exactly as I expected; you can have the painting back in a few hours, with any luck. I'll be happy to give you the whole story then, as well as tell you why, no matter how much you might want to, you cannot press charges. At 11:15, come to the warehouse mentioned in the below file, and you may catch a far greater criminal. SH."

…

The same, dark warehouse once more. Liz entered, cold; either from the air, or from fear. It was the time arranged; and the place. Yet still, no lights.

There had been little prompting from Sherlock for this bit. He hadn't expected much dialogue; but, unusually for him, had admitted that he could be wrong. He couldn't predict Moriarty.

"Hello?" she called out into the darkness, making sure she could remember the location of the stolen painting.

It had been moved from where Sherlock had stored it in the interim; Baker Street was sure to raise alarm bells. Instead, it was in the boot of a van in the middle of the University of London's car park. She knew the location, and number plate.

"Hello there," Moriarty's voice sounded; supremely patronizing, and chillingly clear. "Have you got the painting?" Still, his voice sounded bored. She hoped she imagined the edge of accusation to his tone.

"I know where it is," Liz said, hoping she could. "I did what you said. Kept it in a- a safe place. Moved it now; still fairly safe, but it's a better place to-" She stopped babbling. Would art thieves be so afraid?

Of Moriarty, probably.

The consulting criminal said nothing, for a few seconds. She wondered if he'd gone; but there hadn't been footsteps. She shivered again; if only she could see clearly in this dark. The thought of the source of that voice being metres away terrified her so completely.

"Where is it?" Suddenly, the man's voice was demanding.

"University of London," Liz spoke, jumpy; "Main Car park."

"Which car?"

"A- Money first," she had to interrupt herself; had to play the role. She couldn't make a mistake now; that would ruin everything.

Please could Sherlock arrive soon? She couldn't keep up the façade much longer; and it sounded as though the Turner had almost been lost. She couldn't lie about its location; and as soon as she gave it away, the painting would probably be sold and lost forever.

But maybe that was planned? If it was what it took to bring down Moriarty…

"Silly me, of course," his voice sounded genuine. Or was he just that good an actor? Then he called: "Ronnie!" It was as if he were calling for a pet.

Liz turned around suddenly, hearing the warehouse doors shift: a tall, thick-set man stood there, outlined by the dim light of the street lamps. Hesitant, Liz took a few steps towards him; recoiling slightly as he extended a hand.

"Ronan," he said, gruffly; nervous, Liz took his hand. She felt a small card enter her grip: "Credit card for twenty six million. PIN is 9122. Your payment: where's the painting? I'm to drive it."

Her hands shook as she took back the card. So much; more than she'd seen, much less owned.

"University of London, main car park," Liz spoke, surprising herself with how clear her voice was. "Number plate is PH12, K-" she caught her breath. "KHI. It's a friend's van; please don't- please don't damage it."

She wordlessly reached forwards; gave the keys to the man, apparently called Ronan. He nodded, before wordlessly leaving the warehouse.

Unless Sherlock was watching the painting, then it was lost now. Liz found herself hoping that was the case; Sherlock was needed here. She didn't have a gun, or anything. Nothing to stand up to Moriarty with.

"Thank you," his voice was almost sing-song. Malicious music.

Was that all? There was no more to the arrangement. No more to give away, and nothing to receive. But if she left, then so too would Moriarty, most likely; then this would all be pointless.

Liz steeled herself. She was afraid, true. No one could be otherwise, in this situation: pitch darkness and conversing with the spider at the centre of a criminal web. Yet she'd gone on, and she'd made it through this much. Maybe she could last a little longer?

Not long. But hopefully until Sherlock arrived.

Had something delayed him? Where was he?

"Thank you, Mr Moriarty," she spoke, a vague tremor in her voice. "I-"

What was there to say? There wasn't anything of interest to the criminal that she knew. Just what could she do?

"Before you go, one thing," Moriarty spoke so slowly; Liz was grateful for that. "One question."

Still, his words felt like ice. The knowledge of who this man was, and what he'd done, even that seemed to pale compared to his voice. It was gleeful: he'd sold a stolen painting for millions of pounds, none of which he got, and he was gleeful.

"Yes, Mr Moriarty?" Liz said, hesitant.

It was some way to prolong the exchange. That was good; she'd take anything. But what would he want to know?

"You wouldn't be trying to play me, would you?" his soft, lilting voice made Liz's world freeze. For the first time, his voice was unquestionably threatening.

It sounded as though he already knew the answer.

"Why- why would you think that?" Liz said, imagining so many sights in the darkness around her.

Many were either implausible or impossible, but that didn't make them any less frightening. She wondered if Moriarty would feel even the slightest twinge of is conscience if he killed her. She hoped he didn't know about-

"Because Sherlock Holmes is standing three metres behind me and pointing a gun," Moriarty could have been reporting the weather. He was so _bored_.

"You noticed, I'm flattered," Sherlock's voice carried clearly through the black.

"It's a pity you can't see where you're pointing that," the criminal again spoke; still so casual. "You don't know who you could hit."

Liz took a step back, slowly; unsure. She felt herself press against the wall; she had to stay out the way, keep away from Moriarty and the armed Sherlock. Luckily, she'd been taught that much; if Moriarty could grab her, it would probably be enough to stop Sherlock firing.

Her eyes were adjusting, slightly. It was still very dark in here, too dark to ever see clear; but there was a vague outline in the centre of the room. Moriarty?

"I think I do," Sherlock spoke again; low. Evidently he too was beginning to make out the outline in the centre of the room.

"No, no," Moriarty sounded almost pained; "You really don't."

Silence. Liz stared into the darkness, just about able to make out a second figure; one holding their arms straight ahead, apparently aiming something. That had to be Sherlock; she tensed, taking several steps sideways, making sure there was no way a shot could travel through Moriarty and to her.

Sherlock was the only one who seemed affected by the confrontation. Moriarty's voice was calm; assured and so completely bored, as if he could think of nothing duller than having someone point a gun at his head. The detective, however, spoke urgently; he seemed almost to relish the situation.

"Do you want me to fire and find out?" Liz could just picture Sherlock's half-smile. The detective thought he'd won.

"Be my guest," Moriarty might have been flirting. Then: "I could turn the lights on first, if you want."

Now he sounded resigned; Liz moved further away. Even now, he seemed to be in control.

"I mean, I knew you were involved in this from the beginning," Moriarty was still speaking; almost drawling. "And, I have to admit, I am rather disappointed, Sherlock. This whole thing was so easy, so simple. Did you really think you could trick me?"

The lights suddenly came on, almost in a flash. Liz screwed her eyes shut; looking down, and away from the suddenly blinding flare.

By the time she could look up again, Sherlock hadn't fired; instead, he'd lowered his gun, walking towards the centre of the room.

There was a tall block; almost a shelf, the height of a person. And on the top of that, a shut laptop with four cameras feeding in visual information from all sides of the warehouse, and a microphone, picking up any sound. Below the laptop, within the block, was a speaker; and from that came Moriarty's mocking voice.

"You could trace the transmission, but I'll save you the trouble," he still seemed bored. "I'm in Switzerland. Lovely place. Flight out's booked soon, so don't bother coming."

Sherlock fired, striking the microphone and sending a mass of circuitry flying away.

"That was rather petty, wasn't it?" Moriarty observed, dispassionate. "Aww, is Sherlock upset?"

Another gunshot; this one right through the laptop, wrecking it and much of the speaker below.

Outside, sirens sounded.


	5. 5: Capture

**The final part! Can I just say that Moriarty is eerily fun to write? Thank you.  
Anyway, enjoy!**

**Let me know if you liked it!**

John, Donovan and Lestrade hurried into the warehouse. They slowed almost immediately; none of them knowing quite what to make of the sight.

Illuminated, Sherlock stood next to a wrecked laptop, and a tall block of wood; he kept the gun pointed at the electrical system, as if it could suddenly burst into life.

"Ok," it was Lestrade who spoke next; "So _what _is going on?"

"I'll explain it in the car," Sherlock looked up; his expression instantly switching from despair to excitement. "Come on!"

The trio glanced at one another, not sure what to make of anything, as Sherlock dashed past them; he stopped beside Liz, speaking softly to her for a moment, before glancing up at Lestrade.

"She's coming with us; she's involved. Donovan, you return to the gallery; tell them we should be getting the painting back too. John, Lestrade: we need a car, and something that'll let us track the phone," the detective barely seemed to be breathing. "Quickly! I don't know how long we've got."

"Since when were you in charge?" Donovan shouted, moving after Holmes; catching up with him beside a police car, outside.

"Since I started working to catch you James Moriarty," Sherlock replied, not even turning around, before pointing at one of the many cars. "That one!"

In barely a minute, everything he'd asked for had been achieved. Lestrade, Liz, Sherlock and John sat in the back of a police car, with the driver leading them quickly through the thin, busy roads of London.

Sherlock had given the directions. Using police hardware, he'd connected to a network, and was apparently using a GPS signal to trace something. Whatever the target was, it had just left London; and the driver of the car was anxiously trying to follow it.

The sirens did a good job of clearing the road; but there were still an awful lot of cars and queues that it was impossible to get through. Still, eventually, they were able to escape the main city: and the driver broke the speed limit as soon as the road was clear, followed by a handful of other police cars.

It was their car that lead the way; the driver following the GPS signal.

Once they were on a clearer road, keeping a few turnings away from the target, the driver slowed down. They didn't want to be seen too soon: Sherlock had made that clear. They wanted to wait until the car stopped, properly, before they caught up.

It was when the semi-chase had calmed down, that Lestrade at last spoke up.

"Ok then, what the hell is going on?"

Sherlock turned away from the window, now facing the DI: he smiled to himself, evidently enjoying something.

"Do you want the story from the beginning, or just what we're doing now?" Sherlock spoke so calmly; happy to take his time. Meanwhile, the cars moved at a comfortable pace.

"Both would be good," Lestrade muttered, before sighing. "First, what are we chasing?"

"The painting," Holmes said it as if it were obvious. "I broke open the frame, put my phone inside, and resealed it; it's the phone we're tracking. When it stops and slows to a walking pace, we've found the art dealer who bought it: the same one that was after the Ryder, a case I also took. And I know for a fact that, in the case of the Ryder, Moriarty himself handed it over: I'd say this Turner was worth more, so he should be there as well. Apparently this art dealer makes quite a few exchanges with Moriarty: there should be a wealth of stolen paintings, as well as the spider himself."

Silence; Lestrade looked grudgingly impressed, recalling the name 'Moriarty'.

John turned to glance back over the driver's shoulder, watching the GPS. They were close enough to be able to quickly catch up; but far enough to be unnoticed.

"And from the start," Sherlock lay back, taking a deep breath. "I've mentioned the Ryder; another painting, also stolen and sold by Moriarty. Soon deduced that he was behind it; and my brother, Mycroft, approached me. I wouldn't normally work with him; but for Moriarty, it was worth it. I also spoke with a turncoat, who worked with the art dealer: that's how we found out Moriarty handled the transfers himself. Perfect."

John nodded, slowly managing to piece things together. He had the feeling that he could guess most of the rest just from what they had already. Still, he let the detective continue. Liz listened also; though her eyes were looking out the window. She seemed to glad to have left the warehouse.

"That was all we needed to know," Sherlock's account of things had barely slowed: "The plan was to steal a valuable painting, and have someone ask for Moriarty's help in selling it. That was what Liz was for; part of my homeless network, and willing to join in. We soon managed to set up a meeting with Moriarty; and of course, I couldn't go. He'd recognize me immediately, as he would Mycroft, or John, or anyone I normally work with. So we used Liz; she went to the warehouse, and made a deal with Moriarty. She'd steal the Turner; and he'd find a buyer."

As John had predicted. The blogger smiled to himself, glancing sideways; Lestrade was listening, intent.

At least they couldn't really charge Sherlock any more: it would be easy to involve 'extraordinary circumstances' in the court case, or perhaps some technicality involving the security arrangements: so long as Mycroft regained the painting, he could say it was all for security purposes.

"She was to return to the warehouse a day after the story was in the papers," Sherlock carried on, unfaltering. "So the crime had to take that long for you to solve. I could have made it a perfect crime, but then Moriarty would see my involvement, or think I'd intended him to see it; so, instead, I just made it confusing. Mycroft explained the situation to the guards: made sure all of them would let Liz through. She can tell you what happened there," the detective lay back, at last breathing in once more.

He was relaxed; comfortable. Somehow the fact they were driving after a criminal art dealer and James Moriarty didn't faze him.

Liz on the other hand, was evidently slightly more nervous. She fiddled with a credit card, flicking it between her fingers; toying.

"The guards let me through, as he said," she began; more confident here than she had been against Moriarty. "I walked into the painting's room, made everything as confusing as I could. Any security systems were off; I walked through the room with different shoes on, put a chair up, before knocking it over. Then I climbed up at a different spot, and went into the ceiling there. I put the painting up there, and left it there. It would be seen if I pushed it out then: I left it by a gap that'd already been cut. Then I left: walked back out again, and waited for tomorrow."

Liz hesitated there, glancing out the window, and at the GPS: when would they be at the art dealer's location?

"I waited outside the gallery," the woman spoke again; "When Sherlock came, I went to the right point outside, and waited for the police officers to enter. When the gap in the wall appeared, the bricks taken away, I reached up to catch the painting. Someone took a photo of it; they were part of the plan, to reveal it to the police at the right time. I walked to a car, and the driver of it took it away to Baker Street."

Lestrade nodded slowly; knowing what would have happened after. The phone had been fit inside the frame, and the painting left inside 221C until today.

One day after the theft was reported in the papers; Sherlock had let the police know what was happening via an arranged witness, with the photo he'd arranged, so they'd break into 221C. In there, they'd read the letter he'd left them.

And in that time, Sherlock would have escaped his room and headed for the warehouse: having moved the painting to wherever it was meant to be.

"Even you should be able to guess the rest," Sherlock suddenly spoke again. "Obviously Moriarty wasn't actually in the warehouse; but if I acted as though he was, then he wouldn't suspect we could track the painting."

"Wait," John interjected, frowning: "How did you know Moriarty wasn't waiting in the warehouse?"

"Really John?" Sherlock seemed disappointed: "It was obvious that he wouldn't be interested, but most of all, remember the illustrated client?"

"What?" Watson hesitated, trying to.

He could; eventually. They'd been visited by a man with something for Sherlock to investigate; he'd been covered in tattoos, prompting the nickname. Holmes hadn't been interested in taking the case; admittedly, John could see why. It was more a curiosity than a crime. The client had been able to access the Internet at a point they hadn't expected to be able to.

"They were able to reach the Internet: right outside that warehouse," Sherlock said it as if it were the meaning of life; "Why? Boring by itself, fine: but the same warehouse that Moriarty was in? Why would Internet access suddenly appear there? Because Moriarty arranged it: and why? There's no reason for it, unless it's needed for something: obvious deduction is that he's sending a transmission. Moriarty said he was in Switzerland; but he has to be lying. He'd be involved in an exchange of this much money."

At last, the detective was quiet, having explained the whole basis behind the plan. Even Mycroft had been involved; and if Moriarty was behaving as, apparently, he normally did, then the police would at last be able to catch him.

No questions were asked; they had a few, but the most pressing were answered, and now didn't seem like the right time.

"Hold on," Lestrade suddenly said; turning to the homeless woman. He hesitated for a moment.

"Liz," she prompted.

"Liz," the DI echoed; "You were paid for the painting? How much? You know you can't keep it, right? Stolen property."

"I know," she couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed; wordless, she gestured with the credit card she was holding. "They made a bank account."

"Twenty four million pounds," Sherlock cut in; "I heard."

Liz glanced up to him; surprised, but she soon schooled her expression. She nodded. Lestrade's eyes widened slightly at the size of the number.

Liz suppressed an amused smile; what would his expression be if he knew it was twenty six million?

"Right," the DI soon continued. "When we get back to the station, you can transfer that to a charity of your choice."

Silence, at last. The driver glanced again at the GPS, watching the painting turn into a smaller road. The car slowed down much more: the target wouldn't be going as fast on those roads, and they didn't want to catch up just yet.

It was more than likely that just a glimpse of a police car would ruin the whole plan. Only when the painting had stopped would any attempt be safe: then they went in quickly, and the criminals wouldn't have any time to escape.

As the driver watched; the dot came to a halt, and for several seconds it was completely stationary. Then it began to move again; but so much slower. Walking pace.

"Catch up," Sherlock murmured urgent; "Now!"

The police car instantly accelerated; as did the few following it. Lestrade leaned across, sidling past John to get near the door; ready to leap out as soon as they arrived. They couldn't give anyone a chance to escape.

The driver braked sharply, a line of police cars forming outside what seemed to be more a mansion than a criminal's lair: still, unsurprising. Anyone rich enough to buy and collect such paintings wouldn't live somewhere shabby.

John couldn't help but wonder what kind of person they were; willing to spend so much on a painting they could show to barely anybody. An obsessive, probably.

Whatever the case, he, Sherlock and Liz just watched as the police leapt out the cars, rapidly entering the building.

…

Almost quarter of an hour later, and things were done. The art collector was handcuffed, and sent off in one police car, and with him were two accomplices.

"Well, that's it," Lestrade came up to Sherlock and John; as they waited beside the mansion. "We've recovered the Turner, the Ryder, and half a dozen or so other stolen paintings. We're looking for any more."

"And Moriarty?" Sherlock looked over his coat collar, unblinking.

The DI paused for a moment, before continuing: "Good job on the Turner frame, by the way. Can't find where your phone was inserted; we'll need you to help take it out, and probably repair it again after. We-"

"Lestrade," Sherlock spoke again; warning.

The Inspector hesitated for several seconds, almost reluctant to speak. Then, exhaling, he reached into one pocket, before pulling out an envelope. He gave it to Sherlock, almost as if he were afraid of the detective's reaction.

"No sign of him," the DI spoke, watching as the detective turned over the envelope to read the two words on it: Sherlock Holmes. "Found this on a guy called Ronan. We know he works for Moriarty."

Wordless, Sherlock tore open the envelope, eyes scanning the paper within.

_Sherlock,_

_You know, I was really in Switzerland. Sorry for spoiling your fun. I wasn't lying when I said I knew you were involved: and _I_ don't underestimate people._

_No, that's unfair. You did a good job: if you're reading this, you're better than that adorable little police force your friend works for. Just, I'm better. _

_I'd say you've impressed me, but you really haven't. _

_JM_

Sherlock looked up from the letter, silent and irate. He exhaled, breath rattling; so close, it seemed. Only he'd known about his second, main plan: the traceable phone in the painting's frame. That was meant to catch the criminal.

But Moriarty had guessed his actions; guessed them enough to know where he'd be, and how to deliver this letter successfully. It seemed he'd have a worthy opponent for a while longer. He almost smiled.

John took the letter; read it, before frowning towards Sherlock.

"I don't understand," he said to the silent, contemplative detective: "If he knew you were coming, why didn't he warn them? He's just lost helpers and buyers needlessly."

"He doesn't play the game for the money, John," Holmes replied, eyes not moving from where they stared; unfocused. Thoughtful.

Still contemplative, Sherlock Holmes folded up the letter, and pocketed it; before turning to head back to a car, and back to London. It seemed catching up to Moriarty would have to wait.


End file.
